


A Shot in The Dark

by conkopodwii



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: But I've had this in my drafts since december, Canon-Typical Violence, Fix-It, I'm kinda snowballing this but I think I have a small story in mind, Listen I know there's already a bunch of sbi and bedrock bros fix-it fics out there, Mentioned Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Mild Hurt/Comfort, Not Canon Compliant, Sickfic, Technoblade-centric (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit-centric (Video Blogging RPF), if anywhere, just exploring character relationships for now, no beta my editor is practicing self-care and we stan them for that, not too much though, so stick around if you'd like to see where this goes, technically, the whole thing is really more neutral tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:55:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29554560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conkopodwii/pseuds/conkopodwii
Summary: When you have no one left to turn to, turn to the unexpected. Fire a shot into the dark.(OR: Tommy's just left exile, and in an attempt to get his spark back, he turns to the one person he hopes can help it ignite. Techno is too tired to turn him away.)
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), There will be NO shipping here, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, TommyInnit & Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Comments: 11
Kudos: 88





	A Shot in The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Second fic here! This is one that's been in the works for a couple of months now, and it's one I've been super excited to share for a long time coming. I really like the dynamics that SBI has on the Dream SMP, but I also love a good fix-it fic when it comes to familial or friendly relationships. And, admittedly, theirs' is very scuffed, lmao. So! I figured I'd give this little writing a shot, and it will likely be a disjointed series, rather than a multi-chaptered fic. I can't write a linear storyline for the life of me, lmao.
> 
> Also! While I'm working solely with the characters portrayed in the dsmp rather than their irl counterparts, if the irl ccs express discomfort with this kind of fic, I'll immediately take it down. The same goes for my previous one. That's all! Enjoy!

* * *

Tommy felt cold. It shouldn't have been anything new.

There have always been cold nights. Tommy knew well enough that with nature's gift of warm summer days, nights like these would eventually follow. Such was the cycle of things, and after a long time chasing, tonight was one of them.

Simple as that. Bitter and cold.

But in all of Tommy's years, he didn't think he'd ever encounter a cold like this. Not at all. This cold wasn't like the chill of the camar van's AC sputtering through the hot days of the early SMP, keeping the potions brewed within at a safe temperature. It most certainly wasn't like the cold that rattled through the tented camps of L'manberg during the first war. Not even Pogtopia's vast and drafty caverns could compare—and if you asked anyone, they'd tell you without hesitation that they were frigid. No, no, this cold was something different. Something new.

This cold—an ass of a thing, really—left room for runny red noses and numb bare feet in the snow. It encouraged the chills running down his spine when the wind's icy fingers traced their way along his skin. This cold—a nasty, horrible little thing it was—bit at him, ate him up in the storm that raged on late in the night, seeped into his flesh as the heavy winds tore at his thin and worn clothes, and let the snow barrage his face less like flakes and more like thick, hard-hitting pellets. It was a beast, awful and rabid, never for a moment gentle, hunting him down at every turn, every direction the wind pulled him. This cold, nothing like the colds before (they were mere breezes in comparison, really) had no familiarity at all. How strange that Tommy sought such a thing from it.

If you listened past the howls of mother nature, you would hear the chattering of teeth through pale blue lips. And had he the time to properly think, Tommy would've treated this cold to a few nasty words.

Oh, why stop at a few. 

There were many.

Even still, Tommy trodded on, with nothing more to guide him than a hunch and a vague recollection of passing words. Logsteadshire, warm and well-lit, was far behind him now. It had been a long while since it was even a speck against the horizon. He decided he wouldn't allow himself to miss it. It was a place where only mere days ago he'd maybe have called it home, but now, craters were left in its place, and dust filled the air where his breaths didn't. It was gone, and this time he wasn't going to look back. He was awake. It was time to move on.

As he walked, he ignored Dream's angered shouts of betrayal still rattling through his head. 

_He was just there to watch me. He was never a friend._

Tommy let this thought settle. He was fuming. For months he'd been conditioned into thinking otherwise—his beliefs twisted and motivations beaten down, whittled away into a shameful, prideless nothing. In his time in Logsteadshire, he'd grown numb to himself, lost sight of who he'd been, all at the hands of that green-hooded and faceless bastard. _How did he let himself fall that far? When did he stop fighting?_ He felt wounded, embarrassed that Dream had gotten the better of him—wrapped his twisted little strings around his wrists, played with him like a marionette. His enemy.

His friend. 

He scoffed, the sound drowned out by the wind.

Bitterness laced his tongue at the thought of Dream being that—a _friend_. His emotions twisted and churned, and his stomach did nauseating flips. He had no idea what Dream was to him now. In a world so isolated and lonely, was it right to once again call him his enemy? He visited him, gave him the things he needed, cared for him. Surely that must have meant something? _He degraded you, stripped you of the things you'd worked so hard for, isolated you, hurt you,_ a small piece of him retorted. Both statements were right, so what was the truth? What wasn't? He tried not to think about it. 

That was the thing about manipulation, Tommy figured: by the end of it, you might not know the answer. It's a sickeningly funny thing, watching something that was once so clearly black and white turn into an expansive void of grey. Who knew how long it would take for him to recover from it all? To find his ground? Tommy certainly didn't. Right now, in this bitter, awful cold, all Tommy knew was that he was hurt. He was angry. 

(Angry was an understatement). 

He was a whirl of thoughts and confusion and frustration. He was a little lost, but searching for the answers.

He was, ever so slowly, becoming himself again. 

(Inside of him, a small spark began to pool out from dwindling embers.)

Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, he didn't know. He didn't care anymore, and to be frank, he didn't have the time to. At the end of the day, it was individuality he valued over the morality of his actions if he was honest with himself. That's what really mattered. Not the look of disappointment on Tubbo's face as he had Dream march Tommy away several months ago, on that fateful rainy day. Not the anger that flashed dangerously in Dream's eyes, barely noticeable behind his mask almost a full day's time ago. _No_ , Tommy thought, _at this moment they don't quite matter at all._ Reaching within himself, he poked at those embers that were once a roaring blaze, determined to get back that white-hot fire.

He pushed on through the storm. 

_Always a wild child,_ Phil would chide. 

_Damn right,_ Tommy agreed. He'd let no one hold him down. Never again. 

  
  


It was after a seemingly immeasurable amount of time (had it been hours? minutes?) that Tommy finally saw his destination in the distance. Maybe it was the snow, maybe it was Tommy's vision, but it twinkled brightly against the dull blue haze he'd become so acquainted with over the past trek from Logsteadshire. White walls stood on an elevated stone platform, and stairs ran along the structure's side, leading up to tall wooden double doors. _It looks so warm,_ Tommy thought, rubbing weakly at his near frost-bitten arms. Hands numb from the cold, feet raw from the snow, and body shaking furiously, Tommy slumped his way towards the bright house nestled in the middle of a forest clearing. This was it. The final stretch. Maybe when he stopped shaking, he'd find time to thank whatever gods were out there for the luck of making it this far. 

* * *

He hated him. Really, he did. 

But he had no other place to go, and he knew quite well that Techno made a powerful ally—he'd heard stories of Techno and Phil's time in the Antarctic Empire from Wilbur as a child, and he’d seen first-hand the damage Techno could do on his own when he turned against Pogtopia and L'manberg in the second war. Tommy figured that convincing Techno to protect him until he regained his strength (and maybe his sense of self) would be a long conversation, especially after their previous fallout. But that talk would have to wait.

For now, he was to sneak inside and simply find shelter against the cold. Techno's horse was gone, Tommy noticed, and that made this task all the easier. He breathed a sigh of relief.

Techno wasn't home.

For one night, he'd have some peace. That didn't stop him from hesitating at the door, however.

 _Home,_ he thought. _It's no L'manberg, but. . . maybe, for now, that's okay._ For Tommy, maybe, just maybe, he was ready to start a new chapter. 

And with that, Tommy snuck inside.

  
  
  


One would think that a man like The Blade would keep locks on his doors, but Lady Luck favored Tommy quite the amount tonight. The front door's handle twisted, then clicked. The door itself pushed open with ease. Looking around nervously, he stepped inside and gently shut the door behind himself, shaking the snow from his hair and clothes in the process. It didn't take him long to find where Techno kept his things.

After shuffling through Techno's chests, taking a decent number of gapples and a pick from the storage, then a few pieces of armor— _just in case,_ he assured himself—Tommy toed quietly about the rest of the house. He felt it odd that the place of The Blade's—as chaotic and bloodthirsty of a man that he was, or at least appeared to be—was quiet, and calm, and peaceful. Not even the raging storm outside caused the house to stir. Making his way through each of the house's stories, Tommy made an effort to take it all in.

It was peaceful, but not quite cozy.

The top floor was the homiest. He'd give Techno that. There was a single bed tucked into a solitary corner, an enchantment table pushed up against the far wall, and a couple of chests accompanying it with some papers scattered around the floor. As Tommy walked, the floor would creak a tune very similar to that of the home he stayed in with Wilbur and Phil when he was younger. That small bit of nostalgia was odd, but he savored it. He tried not to think of how things had gone so terribly wrong since then. It was much nicer thinking about the happier things.

Then, there were books. _So many books._ Tommy never quite realized how well-read The Blade was, but seeing the way books were crammed into almost every other available nook and cranny of the room put it a little bit into perspective. As he paced quietly through the room, his fingers traced along the spines of several classics, well-worn but obviously treated lovingly in their time. He let out a small huff, close enough to be laughter, a small tinge of something sad lingering behind it. _What a nerd._

Maybe when he wasn't so tired, or cold, he'd have a chance to browse the collection some more. After all, Tommy, too, was a fan of stories. 

He tried to ignore the memory of Techno telling him tales when he was younger, always leaving him captivated and wanting to know more each time he came to visit. He tried to ignore the memory of when everyone lived peacefully together, just outside the Empire. Wilbur and Phil as family, and maybe even Techno, in a way. 

(He failed.)

The lower levels weren't as interesting. The main level of the house held nothing more than the chests Tommy fished through for supplies, an empty wooden crate, and a brewing stand. In the occasional place, there'd be a rolled-up poster or painting of The Blade, and Tommy would breathe out a small chuckle upon looking through them. It would only make sense for Techno to save his own propaganda and wanted posters like trophies. To him, they were symbols of accomplishments. They gave him pride. Tommy, while he’d never admit it out loud, envied Techno for having something like that.

The level below that—the basement—was completely bare, save for a few more chests and several villagers recovering from being infected by mobs, then cured. There wasn't a doubt in Tommy's mind that they were only taken pity upon because of their generous nature. Techno without a doubt had already made plans to barter with them once they were well, the cunning bastard. 

The hidden cellar (as peculiar as it was) didn't provide much of anything interesting, either. But that wasn't important. 

There were no easy places to hide, Tommy noticed.

And so, in his weary and shivery state, still cold and damp, Tommy began to dig with the pick he'd pulled from Techno's chest. He paid no mind to the question that burrowed its way deep into his thoughts as he worked: _if he came here for refuge, why was he trying to hide?_

* * *

The sun was just starting to peek over the hill when Techno finally saw his home in the distance, smoke no longer pluming from the chimney as he'd left it yesterday. He sighed disappointedly, blinked away the tired haze, then trudged forward. He normally wouldn't mind returning to a cold home, but with the dried blood caking his hair and forehead, and the shattered totem shifting about in his bag, it was safe to say he'd had a _fairly bad_ day. The chipped and bloodied pickaxe in his off-hand would agree. A warm welcome would've been nice. 

It was all Techno could do to not slump down under a tree in the snow to get some rest, right there. Carl, however, who kept close to Techno despite the lead that Techno carried in his hand, whinnied and huffed delightedly at the familiar sight of the cabin in the clearing. Even the steed knew home when he saw it. With another huff, he nudged Techno's shoulder lovingly, pushing him forward through the last stretch. They were almost there.

Techno was, despite the ache in his bones, glad for one thing: with clouds just barely reaching the distance, but stretching out forever onward, it was apparent that a massive storm had occurred during the night. With snow that rose up to his knees while traversing the clearing, he found himself thankful he missed it. Having to walk back and bear through the storm after what he'd gone through, even the thought of it made Techno's body ache more. He'd appreciate this small victory. Slowly, he made his way to his cabin.

Settling Carl into the stable, then climbing the steps to his front door, Techno shook the excess snow from his boots. The last thing he needed today was to track unwanted gunk into his abode. Reaching for the handle, the door opened to Techno's safe haven with a familiar click. His base. His home. A sanctuary, cradled in the clearing of spruce woods. 

And to note that something felt different would be an understatement, to say the least. 

  
  


Techno was an experienced fighter from his time in the Empire, so even the slightest difference in the air failed to go unnoticed. He didn't survive for ignoring the little details, like the anxiety pressing against his chest, or the tiniest slivers of melted snow that streaked against the floorboards in front of the doorway. _Someone's been here, someone's been here,_ several voices hissed in his head. He urged them to be quiet, then immediately set out searching—an attempt to ease the nervous buzzing that rang in his skull. Digging through his chests, Techno took a mental note of the missing supplies: gapples. His other pick. An old and worn iron chest-plate. 

For once, the voices were right.

Looking around the rest of the house, however, nothing else seemed out of place; his enchantment table, books, papers, posters, all were left untouched. The villagers left to recover in his basement were well, not a single one harmed. So why did something feel off? What wasn't right? Techno found himself pacing through his house, checking things time and time again. Even venturing back outside, he found nothing out of place with the exterior. The stable was fine, he'd returned Carl to it with ease, anyway, so it wouldn't make sense for something to have changed during that short time. Still, his search continued on. It wasn't until about 20 minutes in that something finally caught Techno's eye: a small slab of stone in slight disarray within his basement floor, tucked into a corner so perfectly it almost went unnoticed. _It was the little details, indeed,_ he reminded himself.

_There's the intruder. There's the intruder._

Techno readied his pickaxe. 

Pulling the stone back, then another, and another still, a deep hole loomed before Techno, one that reached far enough down that Techno struggled to see the bottom. It was barely big enough to fit a person. If someone were to use it, they'd have to worm their way down the hole little by little to get to wherever it is they're going. But, it was feasible. Upon further inspection, there looked to be no ladder down. Tiny hand and footholds were chipped into the stone and earth instead, and though they weren't deep, they looked to be steady enough to support someone at least Techno-sized.

Getting into the hole was another challenge, however. Techno himself hardly fit, but he managed, chipping away at the stone little by little as he crept down, torch in one hand, pick in the other. As he worked, he became keenly aware of the disadvantage he'd have if someone were to attack him at the bottom. Pausing every few footholds as he descended, Techno listened for something—anything—to stir or clue him in on what might be waiting for him at the end of this tunnel down. Each time, he heard nothing, and with that would continue his descent. 

_  
  
  
_

Now, what Techno might've expected was a member or two of the Butcher Army awaiting him at the bottom, maybe somehow getting ahead of him even after his escape from New L'Manberg. In the several minute trip down, he'd already made plans for how to tackle fighting them, noted who'd be the most likely to beat him back to his home and steal his own stuff just to prepare for taking him down again. He thought about who would be patient enough to leave everything else unstirred, instead preferring to wait in the underneath of his house for the right time to strike.

What he didn't expect to see, however, was a particularly loud and brash, blonde-headed boy leaned up against the corner of a wall in a room he dug out below Techno's basement, breathing shallow breaths, shivering, and grasping as much as he could in his arms: Techno's stuff. He looked sick, barely lucid. He hadn't even bothered putting on the chest-plate he'd stolen, too out-of-it to realize, or probably even care. _He needs your help,_ he heard the voices whisper. Once again, he ignored them.

"Tommy. What are you doin' in my house?"

"Our house, now, bitch," a raspy voice returned, a gurgle hitching in the back of his throat. The room felt cold.

" _Tommy._ "

" _Fuck you,_ " Tommy coughed half-heartedly. The sound was followed by a wheeze, the air rattling through his ribs like an awful and janky tune. To Techno, he didn't sound like he was in great health. _He needs your help,_ the voices crowed a second time, Techno once again pushing them to the back of his mind. They may have been fond of Tommy, but Techno was _not._

Even still, they nagged, noting his condition as they observed through Techno’s eyes. They tried to grasp for an explanation. There was no way he traveled here through the storm, right? It had passed hours ago.

Then again, Tommy Innit was a kid full of (stupid) surprises. 

_Help him. Help him._

"Alright, fine, I won't ask questions right now." Techno sighed, then rubbed at the bridge of his nose. _He didn't need this right now_. "At the very least, come upstairs. You're sick, and I have a few healing pots to spare since you _clearly_ didn't have the mind to take some for yourself when you were _looting_ through the _rest_ of my stuff like a _raccoon_." Stepping towards Tommy and sliding his pick into the loop of his belt, Techno offered a gloved hand, to which Tommy stared at hesitantly. Techno arched a brow, but made no comment on the flinch he knew Tommy would wish had gone unnoticed. His eyes looked dull in the little light provided by the dying torch in Techno's grasp. After a few moments of deliberation, (he deemed him safe, Techno realized), he’d settled on taking it, and Techno hoisted him to his feet, catching him as he stumbled. It startled Techno just how light the kid was. However, once again, no comment was made. He had no place to make one. Together, the two of them made their way quietly back up through the hole. The materials Tommy had taken remained left behind; Techno would retrieve them another day.

In the lighting of the main level, Techno got a better look at Tommy. He observed how skinny he was, and how, even still, he seemed to try and make himself smaller now that he was in full view. _That's not like him._ He noted how despite the bravado Tommy carried about him—if you could even call it that, he could barely raise his voice to a regular speaking level—he shook like a leaf despite standing next to the fireplace, which now roared and crackled to life next to him. It made sense why the hole was so small, Techno then realized. In Tommy's current state, it swallowed him whole.

Despite their differences, Techno couldn't bring himself to mock Tommy for burrowing away under his house like he may have had a few days prior; he was far too drained, and at the moment Techno found himself concerned instead. In fact, the feeling had struck him odd. He dug through his chests in silence, sparing a look over his shoulder every few minutes.

"Stop staring at me like that, dickhead," Tommy eventually croaked out, leaning against the stone wall for support. Techno rolled his eyes. Even half-lucid, Tommy found a way to be an annoyance.

"You don't look good right now, Tommy," he offered back, neutrally. 

"Don't pretend to care. You don't look like hot shit right now, yourself, either."

Techno let out a bark of laughter at that, dark and rattling, then tossed Tommy a healing potion and bottle of water to hold. He watched as he caught them with wobbling hands. "Believe me, what you're seein’ now is a normal Monday for me, Tommy. In comparison, you're in a lot worse shape. Just drink up, I'll find you a change of clothes. You'll get hypothermia staying in the damp ones you're in."

"Why're you helping me, Blade?" There was a flicker of something in Tommy’s eyes with the question. If Techno looked close enough, he might’ve noted it to be one of conflict, as if Tommy’s antagonizing tone was one he didn’t quite understand, either. 

Another thought to be pushed down amongst the rest.

"Just be thankful I'm savin’ my questions for later," Techno responded curtly. Ever so quietly, a small voice called out in the back of Techno's head, too silent to even be called a whisper.

_Technoguilty?_

_No,_ he responded.

Techno stood with a short huff, then made his way towards the ladder and hatch to the top floor. He was sure he had spare clothes on the top floor somewhere. Once again, he'd pay no mind to the voices as he climbed.

* * *

Tommy fought the way his head swirled. He could hardly think straight, and it showed with how his mouth betrayed him when he spoke. Why was he trying to provoke The Blade? Was help not what he wanted? 

_So much for conversation._

Techno had climbed to the top floor minutes ago, and Tommy could still hear him rustle about through his chests through the roof above. He tried to muster a laugh when he heard books topple over and a disgruntled sigh follow after, but it turned into a wet cough that gurgled and rattled in his ribcage alarmingly. He wouldn't try that again. He didn't feel good at all, and it seemed his luck was finally starting to run thin. It had become apparent that his health had taken a turn for the worst in his small cave below the house. 

He was sick.

Even still, his eyes had been slipping shut ever so slowly as the time passed, and he grew accustomed to the crackle of the fireplace —Techno had made sure to light it before he began to search through his chests, knowing the both of them needed the heat to ward off the impossible chill of outside—as the minutes dragged on. The sounds of rustling above him were beginning to become unfocused in his ears, muffled and fading in and out of clarity, almost as if he was underwater. His head certainly felt that way. He shivered and shook, and his damp clothes didn't do much to keep out the chill of the house, but the fire that roared beneath the mantle fought off the little cold it could, given his condition. It was comforting, and it lulled him into a brief sense of peace. The feeling of stone against his shoulder had eventually faded away into an empty sensation. He hadn't realized how tired he'd been, and he hadn't slept since the day prior in Logstead. The sleep he had before then was barely sufficient, either way. Waves of exhaustion were beginning to roll over him, the anger and hurt and adrenaline from the storm no longer fueling him, the pulse of heat that surged through his body fizzling out. As the roar of the fire in the fireplace picked up, the one that had sparked in his chest during his trek began to fade. 

_Fwump._

"What the hell, dickhead."

Techno peered down at him through the top floor hatch. "Put them on in the other room, then meet me up here. We're getting you taken care of first, and I'd appreciate it if you saved the talkin’ for later. Not that you can do much of that right now, anyway."

With a disgruntled huff, Tommy pulled the clothes from his head (where they'd landed so graciously, courtesy of The Blade's toss) with his free arm, then stared at them groggily. He was too tired to fire back another snippy retort at the man.

Instead, he observed the material in his hand: a blue wool sweater had been paired with dusty brown trousers that looked a little worn, but otherwise seemed to be much warmer than the torn jeans he had on. Despite both articles being just a size too large for his frame, he knew they would ward off the cold much better than his torn and ragged shirt would, and despite his initial groggy hesitancy, he felt himself gradually become eager to put them on. There were more details to the clothing to notice, Tommy was aware, but his head suddenly felt too foggy to try and focus on them. He would examine them more later, likely after some rest and when his brain didn't feel like it was full of cotton. For now, he pulled his body from the wall, shuffled his way to the ladder, and descended back into the room below.

Changing, in itself, had been an odd experience. 

It was only after Tommy was pulling the blue sweater over his head ( _Prime, it was soft_ ) that he’d realized he’d never had a change of clothes during his time in exile. On the day of his sentence, standing atop those looming obsidian walls, he’d been forced onto a boat with Dream dragging him by the collar before he could even think of packing a bag, not a single word of protest allowed from his agape mouth. _Not that it would have mattered anyway_ , he figured—the moment they’d arrived on the beach he’d call home for the next several months, Dream had made him discard everything he’d owned into a pit, then set it to fire in front of his eyes. Tommy was lucky to have kept a few pictures of Tubbo hidden away in his pockets, but even those seemed to be long gone, now, too.

As Tommy worked to change, he forced himself to move slowly so as to not aggravate the thick cuts and large bruises that clawed and speckled their way across his arms and chest. He was especially careful around his arms and lower left side of his torso, which were covered with small burns that crawled from the palms of his hands up to his elbows, from his waist to his lower ribs—a painful reminder of yesterday’s events.

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I just wanted to have things of my own!_

_Sorry doesn’t cut it, Tommy,_ Dream had said coldly, before setting the entire place ablaze, smoke filling Tommy’s lungs.

Tommy shook the words from his head, fighting the surge of nausea that accompanied them.

There was a bitter huff of a laugh as Tommy realized that though he felt the aching wounds there, they’d remained almost completely unseen under the dirt and grime that caked his skin. He was never able to fully scrub the impurities of exile from his body in the cold ocean that lapped against Logstead’s shores, and he was a bit sad, if not slightly disgusted with himself, that after some time he’d eventually given up on the process completely. He remembered how he’d doubted he’d live long enough for it to really matter, despite continuing to push forward against his body’s daily protests. Now, he was seeing just how much he’d let himself slip. He felt another surge of nausea, a wave of shame and guilt.

Putting on the pants had been a less taxing process, and for that, Tommy was glad. Cuts and bruises still danced across his skin, as did more burns that were a result of Dream’s fury, but the pants were soft and loose and gentle against his skin. In addition to this, his lower body was still partially numb from the trek through knee-high snow when he’d made his way to The Blade’s house, and combined, the two factors made the pain much easier to bear as he slipped the trousers over each leg. (He was grateful that somehow, however, he’d managed to evade frostbite despite the odds). He pulled the tie of the pants just enough that they’d sit comfortably on his hips, made his way back up the ladder into the main room of the house, then proceeded to the top floor where Technoblade was waiting, tucking the bottle, potion, and his only other possession ( _Your Tubbo_ ) into the deep pockets of the trousers along the way. 

The aftermath of climbing made Tommy’s vision dance with spots as his head began to sway, but he fought against the feeling and moved to sit on the bed in the room. The exertions he’d put himself through over the past several days were beginning to catch up with him, reaching their tipping point now that he was sick on top of everything his body had endured. Silently, he willed the room to stop spinning. 

If Techno noticed how he shuffled almost drunkenly to the mattress on his way there, he made no comment, instead choosing to pull up a chair next to it. Next to him there was a bucket of steaming water, and in his hands sat a damp rag. Tommy blinked in confusion.

“What’s that for?” He asked.

Techno let out a small, tired hum, then dipped the rag into the bucket. Pulling it out, he wrang it, then gestured for Tommy to hand him his arm. “We’re cleanin’ you up some more. You clearly need rest, but I’m not lettin’ you lay anywhere in my house caked in that much dirt.”

“‘s not that bad,” Tommy slurred, despite knowing the truth.

“Have you looked at yourself recently? You look like you rolled around in mud for the fun of it. While I’m _sure_ you didn’t, I wouldn’t put it past you if you did,” Techno jabbed, jokingly, earning a displeased grunt from the boy in front of him. Normally, a comment like that would have earned Techno a word or two from Tommy in retaliation, maybe an eye-roll. It was jarring to not hear it, and once again Techno reminded himself of the deep bags that nested under Tommy’s eyes. If any discomfort bubbled inside when he took notice, he shoved it down with a thought along the lines of _at least he’s quiet. Just testing the waters._ The voices scolded him. He swallowed the guilt that he assured himself wasn’t there.

Setting the rag against Tommy’s skin, Techno began to scrub. It was a slow and meticulous motion, and bit by bit grime slicked itself off of his skin and onto the rag. In some areas, dirt had crusted into several layers, (almost as if he’d been caught in a dust storm) and Techno found himself scrubbing just the slightest bit more aggressively, the added abrasion seeming to do the trick. After a few moments, however, Tommy pulled his arm away with a startled hiss hitched in his throat, prodding at the skin gently as he held it close to his side. Techno pulled the cloth back to glance at the cause of the reaction: where he had scrubbed, he noticed a burn mark had appeared as the earth—though it looked more like soot, he realized—was wiped away, something cluing him in on the situation being a little more than skin-deep when it came to Tommy. The idea of a dust storm slowly warped into the plausibility of something closer to a minefield. For the moment, he filed the thought away. 

His condition hadn’t been the best upon first glance, he’d admit—clothes torn to hell (if he remembered right, he was missing a shoe), the way he was just skin and bones huddled in the basement, how deep bags lined the underneath of his eyes like bruises that had definitely been there for far longer than Techno would give them credit for (and of course, there was the alarming cough that rattled deep within Tommy’s chest)—but where Techno had just scrubbed away at a small layer of the situation, he realized there was still a lot more to unpack. He had no idea what he’d just roped himself into.

“...take it easy, will you?” Tommy whined, quietly, pulling Techno from his thoughts. Tommy was barely able to muster up the annoyance that should have been there, and in his period of silence, his voice had grown more hoarse. Techno complied. _Easy, easy,_ the voices cooed. 

It seemed, to Techno, that they’d both had one hell of a night. He didn't like Tommy, but he could sympathize. 

When the grime was finally washed away from Tommy’s arms and side, and (at the discovery of them) his wounds had been layered with several rolls of bandages, the late morning sun began to peek through Techno’s shuttered windows, casting slits of warm golden light across the room. Neither of the two spoke of their shared scars and weariness that carried over from the night before, instead letting the silence be filled through small jabs at one another through tired lips—an attempt to drown out the way Tommy’s breaths would seem to pass through his lungs rather than fill them, or the way Techno’s body made concerning pops and clicks as he moved about the room to gather more supplies. It was an unspoken agreement to them both that for now, despite their past grievances, they were at a truce. Neither liked the other, but they found comfort in the shared presence between them. While neither would admit it, through Tommy’s foggy cotton haze and Techno’s worn thoughts, both found themselves reminiscing on older days, days where the idea of them ever being enemies was laughable, if not merely an idea of entertainment at best. Maybe that, too, was what made this small moment of peace easier: no questions, no real anger. All of those emotions had slipped to the backburner, the habit of pushing things aside being yet another thing they shared.

As Techno set aside the last of the medical supplies he’d gathered to address Tommy’s injuries, tucking them away into a nearby chest, he motioned for Tommy to hand him the corked bottles of water and healing potion he’d given him earlier on the floor below. There was brief hesitation as Tommy processed the silent request, then proceeded to follow through gently, almost as if afraid he’d break their glass containers if handled even the slightest bit carelessly. As if he was wary of consequences that would come with doing so. Instead of calling attention to it, Techno quietly uncorked the two glasses, pausing.

“Tommy, have you eaten much recently?” Remembering the size of the burrow, and the way Tommy’s frame shrunk beneath the mounds of the change of clothes he’d been given, he felt he already knew the answer. Tommy shook his head. The voices murmured with pity. 

“How’s your appetite?”

“It’s shit,” Tommy croaked, leaving out how his stomach knotted at the mere idea of food. 

“I figured.” Techno swirled the healing potion in the bottle, then, and the two watched as the liquid inside sparked a faint glow in reaction. It bubbled and churned as it settled, shifting between hues of color, and a sickly-sweet aroma wafted from the bottle moments after. Tommy noted how it was similar to that of bubblegum. Once again, his stomach lurched. 

When he was sure the effects had finished kicking into gear, Techno then proceeded to dilute the container of water with several drops of the now-fuchsia glow from the healing pot, then commenced the swirling motion again. When the osmosis was completed, he handed the new concoction back to Tommy with a dip of the head. Tommy stared back, eyes blank. “Drink up. It’ll fix your appetite while you get some rest.” 

“Why’d you fuck with it?”

“It’d be dangerous for you to drink a raw healing pot in your state.”

“Why?”

There was a sigh, followed by Techno massaging his temples. He could leave Tommy in the dark, too tired to explain, he could. Really. But then he’d never hear the end of it, no matter how sick Tommy was. He blinked back the exhaustion. “Are you familiar with the actual science behind potions?”

There was a shake of the head.

“Potions, while they work wonders, often require a source of magic's energy to fuel them. Usually, that’s what the blaze rod is for when you brew them, but they also need an organic source to balance it out. That comes from the body. Do you follow?”

A nod.

“Would you say you’ve got much energy right now, Tommy?” Techno then asked, eyeing the boy as he sat slumped, elbows on his knees, on the bed. Once again, Tommy shook his head; there was something akin to shame painted on his face, and while Techno was satisfied to be correct in his evaluation of Tommy’s state, he also understood the lack of eagerness in admitting it aloud. Neither felt comfortable when weak in front of others. It made it too easy for people to breach the walls that they'd taken so much time to put up.

“That’s why I diluted it,” he continued. “It’s enough of a potion to help get your appetite back up, and hopefully ease up your breathing. I can’t imagine how your throat must be feeling, but I’m sure it’s not great. It’ll help with that, too, not that pain’s ever hindered your talkin’ by much.” 

That jab got a muffled bitter response, and the voices, while quiet, cheered. 

“Otherwise, if you drank the potion raw, it’d eat up energy where it shouldn't and leave you in worse shape than before you took it in the first place. So, I’m sure you could see why that’s not exactly the best idea. Now, no more questions. _D_ _rink._ ” 

Tommy nodded slowly, then raised the bottle to his lips with shaky hands and took a swig. He let it settle, then took another, repeating the process until the glass was drained of the contents and he handed it back to Techno, who recorked both it and the untouched healing potion.

There was a moment of silence that stretched between the two afterward, both unsure of what to say. This odd peace, having not been experienced in years, was unfamiliar territory. They almost squirmed under the pressure of it. Techno took to cleaning up the area some more to pass it by, but still the quiet wrapped its tendrils around him, tugged at his shoulders, breathed down his back like an unwanted visitor. Tommy twisted the hem of his loaned shirt in his hands, and his foot tapped against the wooden floor quietly. Silence with Tommy was uncomfortable— _it shouldn’t exist_ —Techno realized. It was nothing like the pleasantness that sat between him and Phil on quiet days, on adventures that lulled towards the end when the adrenaline was faded, nearly gone. This silence—he felt like he was choking on it. He needed to get out. 

Suddenly, as he approached the hatch down to the main floor, Tommy cleared his throat. 

“Thank. . . uh. . . thank you, Technoblade. Techno.”

Techno blinked in surprise, mouth just the slightest bit agape. 

“Just get some rest, Tommy,” he returned, neutrally. He climbed back down the ladder in silence, and Tommy was left alone in the room above. The pulse of warmth that surged through the space afterward went unnoticed.

* * *

When Tommy had woken up (he doesn’t remember falling asleep) he noticed several things:

He could breathe a little easier.

His head was a little clearer.

His throat, while still in pain, felt a little less like sandpaper.

The sun was only just beginning to rise. 

He was in Technoblade’s house.

  
Tommy had slept through the entire afternoon and into the night, and it had been the best sleep he’d had in a long, _long_ time. Uncurling from himself, Tommy sat up and pushed his legs over the side of the bed. His vision swayed a little, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the day prior, and he pushed through the small deterrent and stood with a groan. He stretched. He took in a deep breath of air, and while his ribs still rattled, the feeling wasn’t as jarring as it had been. Rubbing the bleariness from his eyes, Tommy quietly shuffled to the hatch leading down to the other stories of the house, descending down and pushing through the groggy haze of sleep that pulled at him.

In the room below, the smell of something savory wafted through the air, and Tommy’s stomach rumbled at the thought of food—a good change from the last time the thought of eating crossed his mind. It’d been an extensive amount of time since he'd last eaten something proper, and now that the sickness that riddled his body had been pushed back, his body craved the nutrients it had found itself lacking. Looking for the source, he found Techno seated in front of the fireplace of the main room, stirring a pot of what appeared to be soup. With a small cough, Techno’s gaze was pulled from the food he was tending to towards Tommy. He nodded a small greeting.

“Mornin’.”

While Tommy had been asleep, Techno had tended to his own wounds. 

Where yesterday he’d been coated in layers of caked-on blood that Tommy was sure had been both a mix of his own and others’, he now wore a fresh set of clothes. A white collared button-up had taken the place of the burgundy-stained one from the day prior, and sleeves rolled up to his elbows revealed bandaged arms that closely matched Tommy’s own, one of his hands adorned with a splint. Black trousers had been replaced with a pair of deep brown cargo pants, and Techno’s hair, once matted and streaked with red, now rested over his shoulder in a clean and loose braid. A thick bandage sat above his brow, tiny specks of crimson showing through. 

Glasses were perched on the bridge of his nose. The sight was peculiar.

This Techno was far different from the one Tommy had been acquainted with in the past, even back in Pogtopia. This Techno wore no armor, no battle gear. There was no sneer on his face, no chaos that danced in his eyes, no voice that boomed across the battlefield with declarations of betrayal and demise. He was quiet. He looked tired. All things set aside, he looked peaceful.

He looked domestic. Almost. _Almost._

The thought of it nearly made Tommy laugh. 

“Morning, Blade.” 

As Tommy approached him, Techno picked up a bowl that had been sat at his side and ladled hot soup into it. The stew sloshed against the bowl’s wooden interior, then settled, practically oozing with warm golden broth. Slices of beef floated at the surface, and vegetables ranging from carrots to celery and potatoes dotted the mix, steam drifting upwards from the bubbling stock. It looked amazing. Techno held out the bowl to Tommy, motioning for him to take it, and Tommy did so hesitantly, but with gratitude. He was glad to know their unspoken truce hadn’t expired in the night. He felt something warm flicker within him, and he savored the feeling. 

“Eat up,” Techno spoke, offering him a spoon. “We have a lot to talk about.”

**Author's Note:**

> Editor had to check out again, but all is good! The very beginning of the fic was edited, at the least, and then I ran through the rest myself, so forgive me if the quality doesn't hold up too well through the entirety of the fic. (I'm trying my best). Either way, I think I'm satisfied with the results, and I hope you enjoyed reading!
> 
> Small Note:  
> I don't just write! I also do art, and you can find me on Twitter and Instagram under the handle "conkopodwii". I'm on Twitter the most, and there you'll find a lot of metas and theories I make regarding the DSMP, as well as art and rambles on an AU currently in the works with a team of mine. The AU is titled "Too Little, Too Late," and centers itself around the idea of the clingyduo not making it out alive after the events of the ending of season 2. I'll be releasing a small snippet of fic for it here, soon, as well, so if you want to check that out I recommend you check in every now and then!
> 
> Alright, that's it for now. Bye!


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